Up Front by Emma Hart

Alright people, time to be serious. I want to have a word with you about your unconscious privilege. And that's not 'the privilege I have when I don't have to help clean up after the party because I'm still passed out'.

Let me illustrate this privilege in action, using an example from my own undoubtedly fascinating life. Back in the early nineties, I had a five minute car journey with one of my ex-boyfriends. Lovely chap. We came from basically the same background: poor, white, solo parent, history of violence. But by the time he got out of the car, not only did he vote for the first time in his life, but he voted exactly the way I wanted him to. Why? Because I exercised my privilege over him: articulacy.

Now, being able to put a persuasive argument doesn't necessarily make me wrong. I was, in that instance, right*. What being born articulate allows me to do, however, is to win arguments even if I'm wrong. Just ask my ex-husband**.

Gradually, I did start to become conscious of this power. There'd be a little tingly feeling in the back of my brain that would say, "You know what? That actually might have been a very good point. Unfortunately, he used this particular phrasing which makes it sound really badly flawed, and if I say 'this', he won't be able to articulate his way out of it before I can raise my eyebrows and say 'hmm, well?'. So even though I might be wrong, I can still win from here."

It's a trait, let's be honest, that most of us at Public Address share. We're really good with words, written or spoken. The internet does level the playing field a little bit, in that it doesn't require you to think on your feet as quickly as a face to face conversation does. It gives you the time to consider your response, find the right words, or go and look up 'esprit d'escalier' so you know what the over-educated poncy fucker is talking about. But it doesn't stop people who are fluent and entertaining in their writing being more persuasive than perhaps they should be.
Consider this:

"Thanks TVNZ for making a show that is the equivalent of offering some chips and a litre of orange juice at someone's 50th anniversary on the job," said one contributor on the web forum Public Address, adding: "Running the long history of public broadcasting through a gameshow format hosted by Jason Gunn - says it all."
Descriptions of the show on Kiwiblog included "crap" and "a pile of dog turds"

As Russell says, "Our respective sites do have quite distinct styles, don't they?" But if we'd been disagreeing, would our different styles of expression make us more likely to be right, and them wrong? Perhaps it's the other way about.*** Perhaps their refreshing bluntness is more honest, more down to earth, more realistic than our ivory-tower verbosity.

Complete and utter rubbish, the problem is the substance. But didn't the argument sound, just for a little minute, persuasive?
I was allowed a taste of the ghetto treatment of the inarticulate while working for and with particular Americans, who found it impossible to actually listen to anything I said because I swore too much. Alright, this may also have been because it was the boss's new pet brainchild I was calling a "fucking idiotic thing to do", but it was the swearing I was pulled up for, and was the reason, I'm sure, my opinions were side-lined. And all because I chose to retain my own cultural practices in the workplace.

The other problem with being inarticulate is that other people keep trying to tell you what you're saying. They don't even pretend they're not, they'll actually say, "So what you're saying is...". Next they'll be asking your friends if you take sugar. And I mean, what are you going to do, complain? Like anyone's going to listen. And then it's all, "Darren, no, please, that's not a constructive way to resolve disputes. Put the manager down and use your words."

Now of course, it's impossible for us to stop being gifted and articulate****. But we can try to be more aware of the problems of the inarticulate, more aware of our privilege, and more patient with their pathetic witterings.

*I mean, let's be honest, "duh".
**Actually, you know what? Don't.
*** For those of you wondering, um, no, I couldn't write that with a straight face.
**** Unless someone gives us a column deadline, when all our words will dry up and we'll be reduced to obsessively cleaning the bathroom.

For those of us who live in the parts of the country that have proper seasons, it's finally become that time of year again. The fact that it's been a long time coming this year doesn't seem to be helping. We're still waking up feeling as if we just drank twenty cups of Aunty Joan's chamomile tea, and nothing in life could possibly be worth the bother of getting out of bed.

Seasonal Affective Disorder makes perfect sense scientifically, of course. Production of your brain's 'go to sleep' hormone, melatonin, is inhibited by light exposure. When light levels are low, we feel sleepy. Energy levels drop: people become lethargic, depressed and, according to Wikipedia, pregnant. (Note: bollocks. Since I wrote this last night, someone has removed the reference to pregnancy from the description of symptoms. Turns out it was only there for seven hours.)

Sense isn't really any consolation. Nor is logic any deterrent from wanting to punch Mr Science Bunny in his smug little sock-puppet face, if one could just raise the energy.

Unlike a couple of my friends, who go through what is basically a very slow-cycling manic depression, I don't have full-blown SAD. I don't want to sound like one of those people who say things like, "Yeah, I was depressed once, it was terrible. Then I went for a walk and I felt better. You should try that instead of taking drugs." No, you weren't depressed, you were sad. Shut up.

So yesterday I went for a walk to try to feel better. The plan was to go to Ruru Lawn Cemetery and find the plots of some cousins of my mother's. I'm one of those people who loves cemeteries. I used to skip the Morning Whiskey at my in-law's place to go across the road and explore the cemetery. I do understand how mad this seems, looking at the graves of people you don't know, and I'm not sure if I can explain it to anyone who doesn't already understand the inherent appeal of cemeteries. Perhaps the best illustration is why I didn't quite stick to the plan.

Ruru Lawn is a lawn cemetery. "Headstones" are set into the turf, in neat little lines. The flowers set by them stick up brightly out of the grass in a fashion that reminded me of a book I had when I was a child about a lollipop tree, which disturbed the hell out of me.

So I sort of accidentally ended up in Linwood Cemetery. (Our new part of town is just all cemeteries, all the time. We're well within the zombie radius of three, and a crematorium.) If there are vampires in Christchurch (and let's be quite clear about this: there aren't), this is where they'd hang out. On a rise (possibly a lesson learned about dead bodies and high water tables from the Barbadoes St cemetery), it's just huge crumbling gothic headstones to the horizon in every direction. Marble columns thicker than my thighs lie on the ground snapped clear in half. Plinths on alarming leans show why the headstones have toppled and smashed as the ground has subsided. Time is erasing expensively-engraved Biblical sentiment. On a nasty grey Christchurch nearly-winter's day, it's the perfect place to be. The total absence of moody art photographers and black-draped teenage girls was kind of surprising.

Occasionally there's a place where someone has painstakingly reassembled the fragments of a shattered stone, lining up the sinuous curves of ivy and heavy gothic font like a monumental jigsaw puzzle. I was reminded of Sir Walter Scott's Old Mortality, and the man who goes around cleaning and restoring the graves of martyred Covenanters. Our history is falling apart, and while any attempt to fight that might seem utterly futile in a big-picture sense, it's unexpectedly touching, that someone should care about what remains of a stranger.

It seems, however, that there's a group of dedicated individuals and a Lotteries' grant working on actively sticking the cemetery back together – or at least the bits that the Jewish and Freemasonry communities aren't already taking very good care of.

It made me feel slightly guilty that I haven't been back to check on my great-great-grandfather's grave for about a decade. I really should do that. Though it must be said, I'm never going back to the Barbadoes St cemetery without shoes.

---

As some of you may have heard through the Twitter-vine, when not wandering through cemeteries as therapy against excessive sleeping-in, I'm going to be writing an opinion column for Metro magazine. Not one of you is as surprised as I am.

During the discussion over Boobquake, something struck me, something I'd never really been fully aware of before. As we all know, women signal their sexual availability through their clothing. This is so easy that we actually struggle to leave the house some days without accidentally telling every man we meet that we are Totally Up For It.

What I thought was this: poor men. If only there were some way for them to effortlessly indicate, solely through their clothing, that they were on the pull. Some outfit they could wear where they could just stand in a corner and have women come up and hit on them all night. It's really not fair to make them go to all the extra effort of using their words to indicate sexual availability.

So, drawing on my vast experience, I've made a list of outfit suggestions for the Man on the Prowl. They're not guaranteed to work, because of the unfortunate way women have been conditioned to not express sexual appetite. Rest assured, however, that if you choose to follow my advice and still fail to get you some, Society is to Blame.

The Dark and Brooding

You Will need: A hero coat. Boots. A lot of black. To be brunette, and over twenty-five.

Women love a tortured soul, and also we adore being ignored, it drives us crazy. Scowl constantly and keep your chin tucked down by your chest, just above your undone top button. Standing leaning on the bar or slouching right back in a chair are the best ways to display the essential coat. Remember, it's cold when you're a loner on the outside.

Archetype: Angel

If You Cock This Up You Will Look: Like an emo. Or that guy from Twilight.

The Rocker

You Will Need: Boots. Tight trousers, preferably 'distressed'. A sleeveless t-shirt. A short-cropped heavy-weight jacket. Biceps.

You just got off your bike, right. Which you cruised down here on after a gig, by yourself, because that's how you roll. Edgy. Spontaneous. Dangerous. Sneery. The advantage of The Rocker is that it allows you to be loud and outgoing and actually talk to people.

Archetype: Billy Idol

If You Cock This Up You Will Look: Gay.

The Preppie

Don't. Just don't. This hasn't worked for anyone since Matthew Broderick.

The Uniform

You Will Need: A uniform. Army or Navy dress, or police blues. NOT fatigues, cammo gear, scrubs or Nazi paraphernalia. The arse to pull this off.

It's true. Women love a man in uniform. Those black New York cop uniforms? Yes indeedy. The Uniform can be worked in two different ways: the 'I am on duty and totally business' attitude, and the 'I just got off duty and am looking for a Good Time'. Whichever you choose, remember to iron your trousers and shine your freaking shoes.

Archetype: Richard Gere

If You Cock This Up You Will Look: Super-ultra 'George Michael video' gay.

The Slightly-Disreputable Working Class Boy

You Will Need: Jeans with holes in them. Sneakers. Stubble. Beer.

The 'rough trade' approach does work. The trick is to look like you might be just a little bit dangerous, but that you basically have a heart of gold. Perhaps you like to dance when you're not pumping gas or working construction. Also you need to be capable of at least appearing to have a body shaped by hard physical labour.

Archetype: Bruce Springsteen

If You Cock This Up You Will Look: Like you're trying to score some weed after a hard day shopping for Led Zeppelin t-shirts at the Hornby Mall.

The Stripy Shirt

You Will Need: A white shirt with narrow vertical stripes and a poppable collar. Lynx. Product. A beer neither imported nor working-class.

The most common pick-up dress technique, and I'd hope one of the least successful. The Stripy Shirt has persisted, despite being much harder to carry off now that Aviator sunglasses, hi-tops and brown bomber jackets are no longer really acceptable in public. You will want to choose your venue for this approach carefully. Avoid anywhere, for instance, where people may be playing Spot the Stripy Shirt. If a woman asks "Where did you go to school?" and you say "Christ's" and everyone around you laughs and possibly money changes hands, you're in the wrong bar. Try some place where you're more likely to be mistaken for an off-duty Black Cap.

Archetype: Tom Cruise

If You Cock This Up You Will Look: Like Tom Cruise.

The Stripy Shirt is completely venue-incompatible with

The Dandy

You Will Need: Tailored clothing. A cravat, and the knowledge to tie it. Personal grooming. An insouciant air of suave depravity. Not to be told to iron your trousers and shine your freaking shoes

This is very difficult to pull off, and not for amateurs. It's also only useful for pulling geek chicks and liberal arts majors. You should be able to support it with detailed knowledge of cocktails and cigarillos. It should never be attempted in any bar that doesn't know how to make a dirty martini or a pink gin.

Archetype: Dorian Gray

If You Cock This Up You Will Look: For an ambulance.

The thing about men dressing like he-whores is that hopefully it will become self-perpetuating. The more men who do it, the more acceptable it becomes, so the more men will do it. In practically no time at all people will be watching men spill out of bars saying things like, "Well, he's no better than he should be," "Boy, I bet he's hot in that coat," and "Do you think we should put him in a taxi? He doesn't look safe to walk home." Enjoy.

And now that I have your attention, let's talk about boobs. There may still be, in some remote corners of the country, people who aren't aware that tomorrow is Boobquake Day.

Briefly, this event was sparked by the comments of a senior Iranian cleric that;

Many women who do not dress modestly ... lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes

Now, because this will come up, let's be clear. It's the adultery which causes the earthquakes, but the adultery is caused by the dress choices of women. Men have no free will or control over their own actions in this situation, because of their Animalistic Penis Brains.

A Canadian woman, Jennifer McCreight, has decided to test this theory. She's calling for a Boobquake: as many women as possibly dress immodestly, all at the same time, and we see if there's an earthquake. It's science.

There's a Facebook event, which while I'm typing now has 144 000 confirmed guests. I'll admit that group includes its fair share of less than polite and well-informed people, but I did mention, right, that it's a Facebook group?

I was ready to write about this as a bright, good-natured celebration, but things haven't worked out that way. There's been something of a backlash, to which Jen has responded.

I'm asking women to wear their most "immodest" outfit that they already would wear, but to coordinate it all on the same day for the sake of the experiment. Heck, just showing an ankle would be considered immodest by some people. I don't want to force people out of their comfort zones, because I believe women have the right to choose how they want to dress. Please don't pressure women to participate if they don't want to...

I so hate the ideal of "big boobs are always better!" The cleavage joke was just a result of me personally having cleavage, and that being my choice of immodesty. And I thought "boobquake" just sounded funny. Really, it's not supposed to be serious activism that is going to revolutionize women's rights, but just a bit of fun juvenile humor. I'm a firm believer that when someone says something so stupid and hateful, serious discourse isn't going to accomplish anything - sometimes light-hearted mockery is worthwhile.

It would be remiss of me to talk about this without linking to the criticism, but it would also be remiss of me not to point out the flaws in that criticism. Yesterday I spent hours reading literally hundreds of comments so that I could fairly talk about the mood of the thread. And it's true that people who've complained on the Facebook group have been criticised. They made, for instance, comments like these:

Help fight womens oppression by flashing your breasts? Wow, Neo-feminism has sunk to an all time low. This is pretty fucked.

And my personal favourite:

How stupid! that its the most dumb thing i eva heard there are more grown up ways of stadin up for our sex other than makin us look like cheep whores...........so wont help lmfao!

I love that comment. In standing up for her sex, the commenter has managed to denigrate:
- one individual woman (Jen)
- a group of women (women who dress in a fashion the commenter disapproves of)
- a group of less privileged women (sex workers)
- the English language.

That's quite the achievement in so few words. And that's just one of the comments where women who participate in Boobquake are called whores or sluts or skanks or hookers by other women. Frankly, I'm getting kind of tired of that. Could we not get a little more imaginative? What happened to great words like 'strumpet' and 'harlot' and 'hussy'? Our language has so much to offer in criticising women's behaviour and dress choices. Let's use a little more breadth, shall we?

Also, I can't really let the comment about Boobquake causing body image problems go unaddressed. Because yes, there are women on the thread saying things like:

I would if I had any boobs to speak of. :(

And that is sad. What's not quite so sad, but didn't get mentioned, is the replies to those comments, such as:

Everyone can make a contribution Deana! Don't be down on yourself!

all boobs are good boobs. be proud of what you have.

all breasts are wonderful! from mosquito-bite size to watermelon, and from golf ball to bowling ball.

Then there's the 'men-friendly' thing. And this is where I start to get really cranky. (No, seriously, 'start'.) This is nothing to do with men. Why is the male reaction to it so important to its critics? Why is a man's experience of looking at it seemingly so much more important than a woman's experience of participating in it? For extra credit, you can read the comment thread on that critical piece, look at what those women are saying about other women, and see how many times the word 'patronising' comes to mind.

So, as if Jen hadn't put it clearly enough herself, let me have another go. Because Boobquake isn't all that different from Tits Out For Ourselves Day. As I see it, these events are about two things.

Firstly, they're about a woman's right to choose her own clothing. This is a feminist issue. Associated with it is a blatant refusal to accept responsibility for supposed consequences of those clothing choices, from sexual assault to earthquakes. We are refusing to make our choices on the basis of what men might do or feel, because we are NOT responsible for those actions or emotions.

Secondly, it's about women taking pride in their bodies, feeling comfortable in their own skins. This is a feminist issue. And please note, because I don't think it's unobvious, that both events were explicitly about women dressing 'provocatively' within their own comfort levels. Now, we're told (sometimes explicitly) that we shouldn't show pride in our own bodies because that makes other women feel bad. I'm not buying that, because I think it's predicated on a false assumption: that the only women who feel that comfort and pride are young, skinny, large-chested conventionally-attractive women. And that's bollocks.

People signed up for Boobquake include women my age

(and even older ZOMG!), pregnant women, breast-feeding women, lesbians (only interested in getting attention from men, of course), and at least one post-operative transsexual. I think it's at least possible that seeing a wide variety of women being comfortable with their own bodies might be helpful for other women.

The final criticism I want to deal with is that these events are frivolous. To which the only response is: of course they bloody are. They are a response to criticism so stupid it shouldn't be dignified with an intelligent reasoned response. And you know who agrees with me? Thomas Jefferson:

Ridicule is the only weapon which can be used against unintelligible propositions

Now, he was talking about the concept of the Holy Trinity, but the principle applies. Boobquake is a deliberate exercise in ridicule. Participating in it in no way prevents anybody from taking any other more serious action.

So, while there's no compulsion on anyone to participate if they don't feel comfortable or if it doesn't suit their particular ideology, tomorrow there's an opportunity to be part of a giant 'screw you' by showing cleavage, or leg, or indeed ankle, bare arm, or uncovered hair. Of course, it could turn out that plate tectonics is a massive conspiracy, and thousands of people could die. But if we don't perform the experiment, how will we ever find out?

Dear Christchurch,

You know I love you, right? When people are getting all down on you for being slutty and scary but conservative and privileged, I’ve been right there sticking up for you, you know that. Just the other day I was saying how ridiculously beautiful you can be at this time of year. But listen, we need to have a talk. This thing you have with mayors has got to stop.

You really just can’t go on picking guys because you’ve heard of them before. And then you let them hang around until they get sick of you, every time. Have you ever considered kicking one out, just to see what it feels like?

And this one: what the hell were you thinking? Oh, wait, I know, “There’s a name I recognise!” And now you’re standing by a guy who thinks the best way to deal with people putting rubbish in rubbish bins is to get rid of the bins?

Did you not start to get an inkling that things might not be all roses the night he came home and told you he’d blown $17m of your money buying a bunch of properties from a developer so they didn’t get bought by some other developer? And he was all, “But they were on sale! We saved heaps! We’ll make it back, and anyway, shut up, what would you know?”

The worst thing about this is how bloody embarrassing it is. Remember how we used to say to Auckland, “So…. This famous mayor you’ve got yourself, how’s that working out?” And we’d nod sympathetically and then go home and laugh so hard we couldn’t breathe? Now they’re laughing at us. Not only does your mayor have a nick-name, but we’ve even got an MP in charge of screwing us over. And it’s Nick Smith. You gave Nick Smith a platform to be smarmy and condescending. How do you even sleep at night? Nick Smith, who has no kind of conflict of interest whatsoever.

Sure, your mayors used to be dull and you’d keep them forever, and maybe they didn’t buy you flower shows, but at least they were kind of competent and seemed to give a damn. And we weren’t entertaining the rest of the country with our hopelessness.

So look, let’s try something different. You’ve got this election coming up, and there are bits of it you’re still allowed to vote in. (Because, y’know, your guy thinks you’re incompetent to vote for Regional Council, but still okay to vote for City Council. Because something.) Let’s forget about the Big Names, and look at policy. Yes, I know that’s hard. Yes, I know that’s Jim Anderton. Could you try to concentrate, please?

Who’s going to treat you like an adult? Presuming, of course, that you want to be treated like an adult. Who’s going to treat your opinions with respect and realise that their job is to represent those opinions and serve them as best they can? Who got a good science education at high school and understands that water that runs out to sea isn’t “wasted”? Who’s going to realise they’re not running a business, and that they need to look after your kids, too? (Cashel Mall: classical music to deter ‘young people’ from congregating – outside a high school. Screw ‘em, they’re going to be drinking bottled water when they grow up anyway, and have nowhere to put the bottles when they’re finished.)

I’m really worried about you, Christchurch. You used to be cool. Okay, that wasn’t you, that was Wellington. But you at least used to not be actively embarrassing. Pick someone who’ll stand by you. Someone who, when the Big Bullies come down to take your votes, won’t side with them and tell you you’re stupid. Someone who’ll say, “No, man, Christchurch is an adult, let her make her own decisions. Red stilettos, pro-environment regional councillors, whatever. It’s not our job to judge.”

And maybe, when you’ve considered track records and policy and stuff, you’ll still pick Sideshow Bob, because you genuinely believe he’s got your best interests at heart, even when you have visitors over and he tells them you’re a dangerous skank. That’s your decision. But just let me warn you: Justin Bieber’s coming, and you can’t make him mayor, okay?